The Author Becomes the Story

Author's Note: This is a work of fiction.

The Author Becomes the Story

It's an early April Saturday afternoon in beautiful New England. I have finished my grocery shopping for the week and my chores for the weekend. I have traded my jeans for a pair of comfy sweats and I've slipped into my home high-tops that I wear like slippers. I'm ready to settle in and watch the baseball game when there is a surprising knock on my door. It's surprising because I live on the sixth floor of an apartment building. No one rang from the lobby. I have buzzed no one in. And since I am not friends with any of my neighbors, It's unlikely that any of them are calling upon me. Who is here and how did they get in? There is an easy way to find out.

I cross to the door and look through the peephole. There stands a quartet of smiling friendly looking guys. They are college-aged; maybe twenty or twenty-one years old. Are they lost? Who gets lost in an apartment building? Could they be here to see me? Why would they be? A small part of me tells me not to open the door, but there is a youthful innocence to them so, ignoring all warning alarm bells in my brain, I just go for it. I swing the door open.

They look me up and down, head to toe and their smiles grow wider. One of them says to his friends, "He looks just like I imagined he would."

"He's cute," says another.

"Adorable," agree the other two. "This is going to be fun."

He places his palm flat against my chest and, pushing me backwards, guides us all into my apartment closing the door behind us. The physical contact feels foreign and I am left speechless. I work with dozens of people on my team and I have thousands of customers every week, but no one ever touches me. Nor do

I

touch

them

. While the palm in my chest told me that I am not in charge here, I also kind of liked it. It was a jolt of electricity that I want to experience again. I think. Life is a contact sport but I'm always stuck warming the bench. But who are these guys and what do they want?

~~

Here is what you need to know to understand how I came to find myself in this situation:

I am an author. Sort of. A failed author? An unpublished author. I have written five full length novels and none of them have seen the light of day. But not for a lack of trying. I have spent hundreds of hours querying literary agents all around the country (and some of Europe) only to be denied or ignored. In fairness, since the pandemic, agents receive hundreds of queries a day and chances of getting signed by one is less than one in ten thousand. Most of them never even see, let alone actually review, the queries they receive. And thusly, my books will never be read by anyone who isn't me. So, while I have technically written, does it even count? It's pretty meaningless. Like if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it does it make a sound? I guess I am an author in my own mind.

I have had success in my writings in one respect; I am a frequent contributor of gay male stories on a free erotic literature website. And a modestly successful one at that. I have hundreds of followers. Tens of thousands of people read my stories and seem to enjoy them. I have consistently high ratings, which is rewarding, but what I live for are the comments. The comments are some of the biggest joys of my mostly empty life. Whenever a new story of mine publishes, I eagerly log in every day for weeks after, checking my ratings and devouring every comment posted. People seem to enjoy my stories and they connect with my characters. It fills me with a pride that would otherwise be missing from my sad lonely life.

I've posted around forty stories to date and I've grown as a storyteller in the process. Some of my stories are just fun adventures while others involve developed characters with heart and depth. Four years ago I posted my first erotic story and I had to create a profile and choose a username. Without giving it enough thought, I chose part of the title of my very first story. It was probably a decision that deserved more consideration because now I'm stuck with it forever. My name has a number in it. While it's hardly the biggest regret of my life, it made the shortlist.

Most of the characters in my stories are New Adults. New Adults - in that eighteen to twenty-five age range - are a relatively newly broken out target market. They are no longer Young Adults (thirteen to eighteen) and not yet actual adults. New Adults are physically and biologically adults, but emotionally still figuring things out while unwittingly making decisions that will affect the course of the rest of their lives. They are also less than half of my age. I have no clue how old my readers are because my followers are as anonymous as the authors. People of all ages need to escape their daily lives for a while and get lost in a made up world, so I imagine writing to a wide diverse audience. Many of my characters are New Adults because it's a way of reliving my own life with different choices. Giving myself a do-over. It's the perfect age to revisit, discover things about myself and make some alternative decisions. Even if it's only in my mind.

It's my way of turning back time. Or better yet, reliving my younger life in today's world. So, in different ways, I put myself into these characters I write about. My decisions in real life were not brave. I never took a chance. In my stories, I do just that. I write about how my life could have been (or how it should have been). I was attracted to other boys for as long as I was attracted to anyone, but I didn't understand it and I never acknowledged it. I slid around on the old Kinsey Scale. I convinced myself that I was a solid 3. A bisexual man who never needed to confess his bisexuality because he was in love with a woman who was the love of his life.

Neither thing was the truth. I wasn't in love and I wasn't a 3. Okay, maybe I was technically bisexual at one point many, many years ago, but these days, I am a solid 6. Totally gay and permanently closeted. I married my high school girlfriend and pretended it was true romantic love. We had a family and raised kids together (who are now all in their twenties and out on their own). With the kids grown and gone, my wife and I realized that there was nothing left for us. No reason to stay. We sold the house, divided our assets and went our separate ways. Despite being newly single, I am still not "out" and I have never lived a day of my life as who I truly am.

It's not all my fault. I went to high school in the '80s. Back when there wasn't even such a thing as a GSA Club. Back when no one was "out" - not in my hometown anyway. Back when "gay" was a derogatory insult. The world is not perfect but comparatively speaking, we've come a long way. Today's kids are not the same. Schools are not the same. The LGBTQIA+ umbrella today is a million times bigger than it was all those decades ago. Also, there is awareness of bullying. While it is not nonexistent today, it happens less because it is not ignored. So, who could blame me for being closeted and living a lie when I grew up in the time and place that I grew up in? But now that I'm divorced and my kids are adults, maybe the second half of my life can be my time to live my truth. Maybe. But where do I begin?

I am totally gay, pretty much always have been, and the gayest thing that ever happened to me in real life is...nothing. Nothing has ever happened. At least not that I'm aware of. Maybe another guy at some point found me cute or had impure thoughts about me, but if one ever did, I never knew about it. I'm not a bad looking guy and I've always known that but I've never caught a lingering look or a not-so-incidental touch. Not from a boy. Nothing. And I

so

wish I had.

Since my divorce, I lost thirty pounds. I eat right and I run five miles four times a week. I am healthier than ever. My doctor told me that my body is fifteen years younger than my age. I look much younger than I am. But I am not foolish enough to think that any of the sweet, cute, queer boys I write about would ever take an interest in me. Again, if I fantasize about redoing that time of my life, it's to be that age again myself. But I still don't know where to start. I don't have a time machine. My stories are my time machine.

To this day, no one has ever known the real me.

Well, one person does. A high school friend who at the age of twenty four was brave and "came out". He was the best man at my wedding. Over the decades, life has pulled us apart. Our friendship, though more real than any other friendship in my life, is online and long-distance. We are separated by too many states to be in the same room together. But two years ago, I came out to him. He was kind enough to tell me that I was brave for admitting my truth, but it was a pretty low-risk move. And he is over a thousand miles away. But his friendship and support are two of the most important things in my life.

I've lived in a few different places throughout my life and some of my stories have been set in each of those locations, while others have been set in places I've never been to. I currently live in New England and I love it here. There are so many good looking men all around me, I just don't know who might play for my team and I can't imagine asking the question. I know there are websites and apps to help with this type of thing, but that's scary too. Who knows who's waiting on the other side?

I want everyone to be themselves whether it's gender identity, sexual identity... Whatever. You do you. But for me... I just happen to be a man who likes men. I like sports and cars and men's clothes and men's bodies and everything about masculine men. While I respect the preferences of others, I tend to write what I know. I don't feel like I have the right, the perspective or the credibility to write outside of my comfort zone. My characters in my stories typically reflect my personal preferences. Many of them defy stereotypes and would not necessarily be presumed gay because of any physical or behavioral characteristic. Well, I guess popping a boner when the source is a hot guy can be considered both physical and behavioral, but you know what I mean. And not that there's anything wrong with less masculine characteristics, but I would only be attracted to them from a friendship standpoint, not sexually. Not that anyone is offering. Simply put, I'm just into dudes. And since I do nothing about it in real life, I do plenty about it in make believe life by writing these narratives.

I have a real job and support myself with my salary. I make no money from my writings, but most of my pride and validation comes from the feedback I get in my stories. One of them even won an award. My most popular story is a three part tale involving two eighteen year old boys about to graduate high school. Their names are Jack and Tyson. They are complete opposites in every visible way and they are thrown together in a faux boyfriend thing for their Catholic school's first ever Inclusion Week. Readers really took to Jack and Tyson. They fell in love with them. I did too. I often fall in love with the characters I create and Jack and Tyson were no exception. If I could go back to being eighteen today, I would love to be Jack.

The story was called

Just For the

Week and at the end of the third and final installment, there were so many comments begging for more. In my mind, I had told their story and it was over. But then I won the Gay Male story of the month award and my series gained even more exposure and more readers. People kept demanding more about those two and I eventually caved. But I couldn't just do more of the same story I had already told. I needed to make it different. Something compelling. My continuation surprised everyone and most people hated it.

I broke up Jack and Tyson. Part two of the series came in the form of three more installments. There was a twelve year time jump and the characters were now thirty. We learn that Tyson and Jack started college totally in love. Everything was perfect. Then, Tyson sent him a breakup email, changed his name and disappeared out of his life. Why? We spend three chapters discovering the answer to that question. Jack had been left devastated and heartbroken for twelve years, never understanding what he had done wrong and he never got over Tyson. He comes back to town and decides to investigate, find Tyson and get the answers and the closure he needs. While he does so, two things happen. 1: He learns the truth about why Tyson disappeared on him. It was an act of love to save Jack from a complicated situation. 2. While on this journey, Jack falls in love with another man - Matthew. Now he has a choice to make between his new love and his old love.

According to the far majority of my readers, when Jack chose his new love, he chose wrong. People were furious with me for breaking up Jack and Tyson. I knew it was a controversial choice, but I was shocked by the level of the outrage. People demanded a rewrite. A new HEA. And some of the comments were hurtful to me, the writer. Almost threatening. They were upsetting to read. So much so that I ultimately pulled the second half of the story and just let the original three chapters stand alone. I received numerous requests from those still working their way through chapters four, five and six to repost, but I never did. I had made a creative decision and apparently it was the wrong decision. Live and learn.

The thing about the website is that I am anonymous. There is a profile, but there are no identifying clues. No name or city or anything. Beyond commenting on the stories, there is a way to give the authors direct feedback. I have received many emails from readers sharing their thoughts, making requests and telling me how important my stories and characters have been to them in their lives. I cherish these emails and I save most of them. The sender does not see my email address, but if he chooses to request or allow a reply, I can see his. My identity is protected by the website but if I choose to reply, it comes from my personal email account. Taking that step is the author's choice.

The private feedback emails are a way for individual readers to express thoughts and feelings that go directly to me and, unlike the public comments, no one else can see them. In addition to thanks and praise, I have received requests. Sometimes the requesters want me to answer questions about my stories, sometimes they have a story suggestion for me and sometimes they beg me to repost the deleted

Just For the Week

chapters. People want the Jack and Tyson story to continue. I will not repost those chapters - I learned my lesson - but on a couple of occasions, the plea was so genuine, so thoughtful and so heartfelt that I caved and emailed the deleted installments directly to the individual requester. I guess I'm a sucker for praise. I forewarned them each time that they would not like what they read and to proceed at their own risk. They go in understanding that I will be breaking their hearts and crushing their dreams. They don't love the final choice, but they thank me for sharing. The other emails, the ones requesting that I

rewrite

Part Two and do it "the right way", are just rude and get deleted.

Each reply came, from my personal (and no longer concealed) email address. That alone should not have been of concern. I'd replied to "feedback" multiple times in the past with no consequence. But I was about to realize that I had a quartet of young "fans" who were much more technologically savvy than I could imagine and they were able to turn nothing more than a nondescript email address into my name and place of residence. That Spring Break, my little corner of New England was about to get four uninvited visitors.

~~

Now, here I stand, face to face with four intruders. Young, cute and innocent looking intruders, but intruders nonetheless.

They look me up and down, head to toe and their smiles grow wider. One of them says to his friends, "We knew he was a little older than us. I think he looks just like I imagined he would. He's sort of cute."

I blush a little at being called cute. It's been a couple decades since anyone thought I was cute. Handsome? Good looking? Sure. But cute? Hmm. And never by a guy. No guy has ever noticed me in any way. Or if he has, he has hidden it well. Like I do when I'm checking out the eye candy. My dick twitches in response.

Another of them adds, "This is going to be fun."

Okay, that sounds ominous. Fun? What will be fun? I say, "Do I know you guys? Maybe you have the wrong apartment. Whoever buzzed you in I'm sure is expecting you. Maybe you're on the wrong floor."

A second guy says, "We caught the lobby door as someone was coming out. We're in the right place. We're here to see you. We're fans."

Fans? Of what? My expression reflects my confusion.

A third guy says, "We know who you are."

They certainly found me, but why would they be looking for me? I ask, "Then why don't

I

know who

you

are?"

"Because this is a surprise visit."

"And our profile names on the site would be meaningless to you anyway."

I'm tensing a little. I've opened my door to intruders. What is wrong with me? So little happens in my real life that when I saw four good looking dudes through my peephole, I swung my door wide open for them with hardly a second thought.

The third guy continues, "We found you! We figured out your real name and here we are. You're kind of a celebrity to us. We've read all of your stories."

My hand tightens on the doorknob. The doorknob to the door that I now wish was still closed.

The forth guy almost shouts with glee, "You're Str8SensitiveGuy!"

My blush deepens and that alone is all the confirmation these guys need. One of them plants a palm flat against my chest, guiding me backwards and we are now all inside my apartment. My door is once again closed, but these guys are on the wrong side of it.

No one has ever called me Str8SensitiveGuy before. My identity on the site is supposed to be anonymous. No one in the real world knows of my alter ego. At least they didn't. With my pink cheeks giving me away, my new young friends here know more about me than my own family does. Or the people I work with. And since I have no real friends, that's everyone.

The first guy says, "Cool place. Is it the inspiration for Felix's apartment? You know, in the one where Miguel/Ramon stays over for the weekend? Where's the piano?"

Okay, they really have read my stories. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Should my fingers be readying to call 911? My phone is on the coffee table. I ask my uninvited guests, "Who are you?"

One of them says, "I'm Seany and this is Seb, Quinn and Jay."

I'm torn between laughter and fear. Sean, Seb, Quinn and Jay are the names of the four characters in my

Road Trip

and

Road Trip 2

stories. Four friends from high school are away at college but back for holiday break, they take a January trip to Florida. Along the way, they come to realize they have had feelings for each other and ultimately they become two couples. Sean and Seb are featured in the first part and Quinn and Jay star in part 2.

Should I be afraid that they are not telling me their real names? Or why they're here? I don't have much that anyone would be interested in. A laptop. My iPhone. That's it.

I ask them, "What do you want?"

Quinn says, "To interview you. We're fans. And I want to be a writer. We want to ask you questions about your stories and your characters. We'll pay you for your time. It's not like your touring the country on a book signing. We had to come to you."